


Dance, Ballerina, Dance!

by JohnlockInferno (Frakme)



Series: A Song for the Lovers [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Johnlock Feels, Missing Scene, Not actually ballet!lock, Post-The Sign of Three, Song fic, mentions of John/Mary - Freeform, sherlock pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frakme/pseuds/JohnlockInferno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://silentauroriamthereal.tumblr.com/post/118065901840/thexth-ok-why-did-benedict-force-his-eyes-to">this Tumblr post.</a></p><p>One shot set post TSOT, the song gave me major sad gay baby Sherlock feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance, Ballerina, Dance!

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Dance, ballerina, dance!’ performed by Nat King Cole, Songwriters: LINDSTROM, HANS-PETER / HERMANSEN, THOMAS MOEN  
> Dance, Ballerina, Dance lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
> 
> No copyright infringement intended. This is a not for profit work.
> 
> With many thanks to my beta, Teaandcakes.

 

_Dance, ballerina, dance_

_And do your pirouette in rhythm with your achin' heart._

_Dance, ballerina, dance_

_You mustn't once forget a dancer has to dance the part._

 

The music faded in the background as Sherlock walked away from the wedding venue, turning up the collar of his coat.

He walked out to the main road and hailed a passing taxi, curtly telling the driver to take him to Baker Street. The detective stared out of the window at the passing scenery, a hollow feeling inside of him.

When the taxi arrived, Sherlock paid the fare then stepped out onto the street.  Not a single light was on in 221B; unsurprising as Mrs Hudson was still at the wedding reception. He let himself in and trudged up the stairs, before heading for his bedroom.

Carefully he stripped out of his suit, put it all in the suit carrier, ready to return to the hire company. Donning his pyjamas and dressing gown, he made his way to the living room. He froze as he gazed at all the wedding paraphernalia scattered around the living room, on the table and attached to the wall.

A sudden coldness fell over him as he examined the tableau; seating plans, RSVPs, business cards, fabric swatches, colour schemes. First, he gathered up everything covering all the flat surfaces and put them in the fireplace. He ripped all the pieces of paper from the wall, working methodically until the wall was bare, adding them to the growing pile on the firewood. When it had all been cleared, he picked up the box of matches that lay on the mantelpiece, then pulled out a match. Lighting it, he threw the flame onto the pile and watched the flames consume everything.

He felt a vague feeling of guilt; perhaps John and Mary would want to keep such items. Too late now, he thought. It was all just useless sentiment.

Once it had all burnt to mostly to ashes, with a few remaining fragments, he cleaned out the fireplace, dumping everything into the kitchen bin, tying the liner neatly before hauling it downstairs to the outside bin.

He walked back upstairs and returned to the living room, which suddenly seemed so empty. He looked at the two armchairs opposite each other, his dark green leather chair and John’s red, patterned monstrosity. He walked up to it, touched the back. When would John be next in this chair?

Not anytime soon, he realised. Right now, John was with his wife, the woman he loved, the woman he’d pledged his life to. There would be no room for Sherlock anymore.

Without even realising what he was doing at first he picked up the heavy chair and staggered out to the hall. Grunting, he managed to heave it up the stairs, though by the time he got to the top, he was shaking. He took a small breather before taking it into John’s bedroom.

Except it wasn’t anymore. The drawers and wardrobe were empty, John’s spare coat and dressing gown no longer hung on the back of the door, the bed had been stripped of its sheets, no sign that anyone had slept in it the night before.

Yet Sherlock laid down on the bare mattress, his head on the pillow and he could still smell John’s scent faintly. He closed his eyes, the coldness and hollowness over taking him. He thought he’d been lonely when he was away dismantling Moriarty’s web, but he clung to the hope that John would be waiting for him. Yes, it was inevitable he would be angry but John would get over it and it would just be the two of them against the world once more.

But now he realised that loneliness was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Not now John was merrily living another life without him, one he couldn’t be a part of.

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side..._   _I'd always thought love was a dangerous disadvantage; thank you for the final proof._ Those words he’d uttered with such scorn at The Woman now came back to haunt him. He loved John, he told him so at his wedding. And he’d lost him to Mary. Kind, lovely, witty Mary, who’d encouraged John to repair his friendship with the man he had grieved for, for over two years. Yet it wasn’t the same, John was no longer here. For just this moment, he wanted to forget that John was gone. Closing his eyes, he allowed the sense memory of John’s presence lull him into an exhausted sleep.

 

_Whirl, ballerina, whirl_

_And just ignore the chair that's empty in the second row._

_This is your moment, girl,_

_Although he's not out there applauding as you steal the show._

 

Eventually, Sherlock woke and got up from the bed and went downstairs. He had a case to solve. Probably the biggest he’d ever had. Charles Augustus Magnussen, a leech on society; corrupt, cruel and with far too much power over far too many people. When he went downstairs, he turned on his laptop and began to work, searching for clues, making notes on Post-it notes he stuck on the empty wall. Occasionally he would get up and pace, talking out loud, sometimes asking questions as if John was in the room with him.

He worked long into the night, through the dawn into morning, ignoring his transport’s desire for sleep. He had to do this, he had to focus on the case, to bring down this vile, inhuman person who preyed on the weakness of others. However, he would have to do it alone, John was on his honeymoon, starting his new life away from Sherlock. The urge to text John, to tell him about the case was overwhelming.

In a fit of pique, he hacked into John’s blog and wrote an entry about the wedding, though it left a sour taste in his mouth. He recalled John saying that nothing would change between them but he knew Mrs Hudson was right; John had other priorities now and Sherlock would have to content himself with fitting into the corners of John’s new, conventional life.

He knew he only had himself to blame, he’d rejected John’s tentative advance that night at Angelo’s, hid behind his work because he didn’t see at first how important John would become to him. Then he was forced to leave John behind as he took apart Moriarty’s web. Only he never anticipated the depths of John’s grief and guilt that he could not prevent his best friend from committing suicide. No one, save his brother, had ever cared so much about Sherlock. It had made him realise his own feelings towards his blogger and he’d been eager to see him, to maybe resume their friendship and take it further, but John’s fury had still taken him by surprise when he finally met with him for the first time after his return.

John had forgiven him, eventually, but it was too late for any declarations of feelings, John had moved on.

 

_Once you said his love must wait its turn_

_You wanted fame instead._

_I guess that's your concern,_

_We live and learn._

_And love is gone, ballerina, gone_

 

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. This was intolerable, he could not afford distractions now of all times. He steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, delving into his mind palace, to review all he had learned so far of Magnussen from Lady Smallwood.

Sherlock needed to lure him out. He would make himself appear weak so that, like a carnivore scenting injured prey, Magnussen would take this information and try to find out what it was worth. It was an easy reach to know that the newspaper man would be after Mycroft, for Sherlock’s brother held far too many secrets that could bring the country to its knees. Sherlock was confident he could use his brother to draw Magnussen out. As to his weakness, there was an easy solution to that.

He picked up his phone and made a call. Ignoring the voice of John in his head, begging him not to do it, he rang one of his homeless network, one who he knew would provide what he needed.

The fact that the cocaine would help numb the pain of his loss didn’t enter into it. After all, he was doing this for a case. The biggest of his life and he would do it alone, without his blogger, his conductor of light. So, as he got up and paced the room once more, he tried not to think how hollow a victory it would be, without praise from the one person who truly mattered to him. The man he'd loved and lost.

 

_So on with your career, you can't afford a backward glance._

_Dance on and on and on_

_A thousand people here have come to see the show_

_As 'round and 'round you go_

_So ballerina, dance_

_Dance, dance!_


End file.
